I’m sitting at my desk. On one screen, this blogger entry. On the other, Sigur Ros’ INNI is playing, a harsh, high contrast recording of one of their concerts, so aggressively retro it seems a vision of the future from the days of Fahrenheit 451. It’s on mute. I just want the visuals.

Yesterday I went swimming in Chesterfield Gorge. I hadn’t planned on it, the sky having been cloudy all morning, but when the sun broke free I slipped out of my clothes and into the water.  It was icy and invigorating, and I swam into the rapids and tried to clamber upstream. The current was so strong I was almost swept away, so I chose instead to deliberately pin myself against a submerged boulder, the water roared and parting against me, my body vibrating against the great stone from the violence of the flow.

Half the time I don’t know what I’m about.

What to blog, what to tweet. What updates to post to my Facebook page. Whether the story I’m writing will hold anybody’s attention. I’ve taken to sitting back and eyeing the words on the screen. Is this of any interest? I’ll ask myself. Is this the point where the reader puts the book down, and never comes back?

A small moth, tiny really, is flying kamikaze loops about my desk lamp. It flits wildly up at the light, and then flicks back down onto the table, where it goes from being a wicked blur to a drab and silverdusted sliver of wings.

I look at it, and realize that it’s far too apt a metaphor for how I feel right now.

Sigur Ros in all their idiosyncratic glory to my left. The little moth, flinging itself in erratic circles to my right. And me here in the middle, frowning and wondering just where exactly I might fit into this spectrum.

You ever wonder about your place in the scheme of things?